LXVIII. Love beneath lust

LXVIII. Love beneath lust
The hand that was on my chest drops and shoves my shirt up with impatience, messing my bra together, exposing my sweaty skin, my breasts that rise and fall in a frantic rhythm to his eyes, darkened with desire…
Then, without warning, he slides two fingers inside me, stretching me so good, and making an almost silent, almost broken, breathless moan escape from my lips. There’s no delicacy in it, only a raw need that pulses and tries to suck them in, wanting more, wanting deeper.
I’m so slippery that he doesn’t need to go slow or be gentle about it. And honestly, I don’t want him to. I don’t expect such a thing from a man like Matteo, who lives on the edge, always one step away from losing his damn mind and destroying the entire world.
“You’re such a greedy little slut, aren’t you?” He groans, low and satisfied, twisting his wrist as his fingers go deeper, giving me what I want, but not quite. He’s ignoring that sweet spot inside me, always making me teeter on the edge of pleasure I shouldn’t crave, yet I search for it like a moth to a flame, knowing it will burn me to ashes.
The sloppy sounds of his steady rhythm are too loud in this quiet apartment, but I don’t mind them. I can’t think straight. It feels so good that all I can think about is how he’s fucking me with his fingers, lapping at my clit with the right pace and pressure. 
“Do you want to come?” He asks, against my throbbing pussy, and the vibration makes my eyes roll. My head drops back against the couch, and I can barely breathe. “Beg for it… Maybe I’ll let you.”
As if to prove his point—to prove that he could make me come if he wanted to—Matteo thrusts deeper, slamming his hand between my thighs and curling the tips of his fingers, finding that sweet spot so easily that my own toes repeat the movement, curling and shaking desperately.
I dig my fingers into his short hair, pulling, gripping as if I’m trying to hold onto something real. But it’s not helping. I’m floating, spinning, burning alive. I can’t control my hips, which move on their own, searching for pleasure, for relief.
Matteo laughs against my clit now, getting rougher in his pace, slamming his hand, flicking his tongue in quick circles that bring me closer and closer, punishing me for trying to take control, for saying those words, for provoking me until his patience snaps.
My clit throbs, and my nipples are so hard, pointed, sore, and sensitive to the slightest touches. Even the air seems to torture me more…
But I stay there, hovering on the edge.
“Matteo…” I moan his name like a plea, a confession, a full surrender that should never sound in my raw voice. And that only makes him fuck me harder with his fingers—faster, deeper…
Until I can’t take it anymore.
The orgasm hits me like a damn explosion, my mouth opening in a rough scream that tears at my throat. My eyes roll before finally closing, surrendered to that overwhelming wave, and I see stars behind heavy eyelids. Stars that come and go in the same rhythm as his tongue.
My back arches into the couch, hips rolling toward his mouth, while my pussy clamps down around his fingers in violent spasms, soaking everything and spilling saliva and desire down my thighs.
But Matteo doesn’t stop. He keeps licking, lapping up my taste, groaning against my skin, feeding on my pleasure. He drinks, swallows, as if my orgasm belongs to him alone.
His fingers stay buried inside me, feeling every pulse of my inner walls, every desperate squeeze around him, until the licks grow lazy, slower, with just enough pressure to stretch out the end.
Matteo’s tongue hits a sensitive spot, and my whole body shudders, jerking, too sensitive, until the overstimulation turns into sweet agony. My muscles lock, and my toes curl so tightly it almost hurts. I try to pull his hair and make him stop, but he’s decided to punish me further, knowing too well that even my pleasure can be a weapon.
The last tremor runs through me, and my breathing finally starts to return, still broken, panting, but steadier. Matteo lets out a rough, satisfied groan and sucks my swollen clit hard one last time before letting it out with a wet pop.
His mouth, chin, and hands are wet with my mix of arousal and release, but what really makes my heart stutter is the look on his face—those dark, possessive eyes that don’t just mean “you’re mine” but mostly say: “I missed you.”
There’s not really any anger left… just hunger and raw desire. A twisted, insane devotion that only Matteo Romano can feel toward someone.
And he still hasn’t even started fucking me for real.
“Why are you so quiet, huh?” Matteo slowly rises to his knees again, his hands sliding up to my waist, leaving a damp trail across my skin. “Not feeling like running your mouth anymore?”
I part my lips, but nothing comes out, only a shuddering breath. The silence makes his eyes narrow, taking it as a challenge. He leans closer, not touching our mouths this time.
“No?” he murmurs, lowly, his flicking up to my face as if he wants to see whether I’ll say his name again or dare to say Enzo’s, just to watch him break. “Nothing clever this time?”
Matteo’s mouth twitches, almost a smile, almost a snarl.
“Seems like you have a lot on your mind, huh? What is it, Marina?” he asks, too softly for a man like him. “Still thinking about him? Even if I just made you come in my mouth?”
Even though there’s softness in his tone, his hands tighten enough to make my hips jolt against him in a warning. I lift my chin, refusing to look away even when my whole body begs me to choose the safer answer.
“I’m thinking,” I whisper, “about how you always ask questions you don’t want the truth to.”
For a second, he just stares at me, breathing hard. His pupils swallow all the brown, narrowing slowly, as if remembering something he doesn’t want to. Maybe he really is, because as soon as those words escape my lips, those distant memories return to my mind as well.
I don’t think I can forget the look of betrayal in Matteo’s face.
It didn’t suit a man like him, with all he’d seen and done, to have such a disappointed look in his eyes, a hurt so deep it made him look younger for half a heartbeat. Probably what was left of his heart had just shattered, because the edges cracked, and something human slipped through before he could shove it back down.
But just like that day, he’s putting his armor back on, hardening his eyes and his whole expression, arming himself with hatred and resentment, trying to suffocate the love beneath simple lust.
“Fine,” Matteo hovers over me, sinking both his hands into my hips and pressing me down on the couch’s edge. “I’ll get these truths out of you.”
He brings our faces closer slowly, mingling his breath with mine—too heavy, too deep compared with my quick, shallow ones.
“…You’re always more honest when my cock is inside you.”